


Extra Ordinary: My Life As Number Seven

by starsandsupernovae



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Umbrella Academy - Freeform, someone give these poor children a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae/pseuds/starsandsupernovae
Summary: Vanya just wants to tell her story. None of her siblings want to hear their own.Excerpts from Vanya's autobiography and her siblings reactions to reading their sections.





	1. <s>Chapter</s> Number One

**Author's Note:**

> Extraordinary. The word has always been used to describe my family- from our family structure (if one could call it that) to our individual abilities. The word is quite apt when applied to my siblings but when it comes to me it needs a little modification. A small one, as small as the difference is I’m sure, one little missing or altered gene, one little biological switch flipped off, but with big consequences, one little space in the word changing it from extraordinary, the words of heroes and gods far beyond us mere mortals to extra ordinary, a phrase that speaks of nothing but a small little girl with straight brown hair and an interest in books and music. A phrase that describes me, Vanya Hargreeves, to a T. But of course, there is no ordinary if there is no extraordinary to highlight it. My siblings were outstanding, children of spectacular powers and it is them that highlight my own regularity, their abilities casting light on my lack. So here are their stories, that you may understand mine by absence.

We were never named as much as we were categorized, given a number. I was never quite sure how my father decided the order or if it was completely random, just a convenient way to keep track. Whether my brother was truly intended to be a number one or not he truly rose to the role, inserting himself as our leader and our father allowed it happy to have a second in command. I think, of all of us, Luther was the only one who always believed in our goal, in the altruism of what our father did to us. I’m not sure if that was due to true faith or to a fear of what would happen if he ever once let the belief falter.

Luther’s ability was his formidable strength, the most apparent from a young age. One of my earliest memories is that of Luther, as a petulant toddler, throwing a tantrum that ended up with his bed in pieces. My father took him aside after that, and to this day I don’t know what was said. There were no more tantrums. But his talents extended beyond just his strength, he was a natural leader, at least as a child and knew it. As we grew and the others own powers manifested he was there, already comfortable with his strength to support them. 

Excepting a few misdemeanors, Luther was the rule follower, the one who would stay behind while we would sneak out to buy donuts, the one who would return to the proper place to begin lessons again the minute our half hour of recreation time was over. That was our play time for the week as we were less children then tools to avoid the coming apocalypse my father always believed was just around the corner. Our playtime was no more than routine maintenance, a recharge so we could go back to training for our true purpose. Luther truly believed in the oncoming apocalypse, and accepted naturally that what we were going through was for the greater god and never once hesitated to remind us. He was the golden child, and I’m sure my father never once questioned his decision to place him in charge above us, and we never questioned Luther himself when he would tell us that what we were doing was the most important when we were young because he was our Number One, and he would never lead us astray. In a family of seven children of equal age he was the big brother. 

He was also the mission leader, although of course I experienced none of that. He would organize the others and give them their orders, the captain if not the general over the foot soldiers. He was good at it, too, leading them quite successfully until the Incident. I don’t know all the details of that mission and I have long since learned not to ask. We are not a family of questions and answers, but a family of secrets, of matters being carefully and neatly swept under the rug. No one spoke of the Incident but Luther was always the one most tense about it and I always wondered if he had led that mission too, if he thought perhaps it was his mission plan that led to it. 

 

Luther took a breath before slowly and deliberately putting the book down on the polished wood table. He would read no longer, would not add to her audience. It wasn’t that she was wrong that bothered him he realized as he leaned forward in the hard backed chair. No, what bothered him, the ugly thought that rose from the back of his mind and loomed before him until he had to acknowledge it was that she was right. She had written no lies and yet it felt so wrong.  
He got up to go down to the gym, to eradicate the words she had written from his mind but they followed after him, swirling around in his mind.

_Not sure due to faith…...due to fear_

He pushed the door open, wrapping his hands

_Golden child_

He took his position against the punching bag

_Only one_

He hit it, harder and harder, hands thumping against the 

_Due to fear_

The bag flew off the chain keeping it up.

“I’m not afraid.” he hissed, turning and stalking out. He pushed straight into his father’s office, where Reginald was writing, as always, in his journal.

“I’ll do it.” Luther announced.

Reginald didn’t answer, merely flipped the page and kept writing.

“I’ll do it.” Luther repeated walking up to the desk until his shadow covered the book.

That got his attention

“You will continue with your missions? Without the others?”

“I believe it’s important.” Luther answered, resolute. “I’m not afraid.


	2. Number Two| Diego

Diego. Number Two and I’m not sure he ever got over it. Diego’s strength was his perfect aim, both with his knives and words. While perhaps not with the power Allison had, Diego could take his speech and maim, particularly Luther. He knew exactly how to get under his skin and took full advantage. At any given time the two were more likely to be at each other's throats then that, always culminating in an uneasy victory by Luther, an unspoken acceptance from Diego that he was number two and however much he may have hated it he submitted to Luther’s leadership. I think he realized he needed such order and discipline, that he needed to feel he was doing good but also didn’t trust himself to determine what to do himself. It was this I think that made him listen to Luther and our Father and later when he left to decide to go into law enforcement, the need for someone else to decide what was the right thing to do. The fights were more than external- it was Diego finding his place in the family and the world and coming in second. Such fights were often followed by a trip out by a few of us, Diego organizing how we would avoid surveillance and get to town and back without detection, needing to prove that he too could lead if he so wished and we followed, eager for the chance. 

Diego was also closest to our mother and trusted her completely. The rest of us loved her but viewed her as a sort of extension of our father, a view she did little to dispel. She followed his orders unquestioningly and to us spoke nothing but praise of him, he could do no wrong and we could seek no validation from her about the unfair treatment we received. In retrospect things seem clearer- don’t they always? And I have begun to think of our mother as almost another one of us, still trapped in the house. At the time though, most of us were frustrated, unable to understand why she would just stand by. Diego, however, harbored no such frustration perhaps understanding what the rest of us could not. She was gentle with us all but her hours of patience spent with Diego, him reading aloud while she encouraged him through his stutter were even beyond that. Diego eventually conquered his stutter and now speaks perfectly clearly, but I think he never quite moved past the feeling of not being heard. We tried to be patient but we were children and our father always viewed it as a sign of weakness. I say this as not an excuse for our behavior but an explanation. I am sure that all my brothers and sister have their own explanations for their actions. I am sure my father does too. The distinction between excuse and explanation is important. 

For a time it was not unusual to find knives just lying around in odd places, sprawling casually on the couch or table. We were always taught to keep the place pristine but Diego never seemed to get the hang of that or the restriction on weapons outside the designated rooms. He would throw knives as casually as another would throw a paper airplane. Eventually we all got used to it to the point where a knife thrown an inch from where we were sitting wasn’t afforded so much as a flinch. I supposed my father thought it useful enough to be allowed because I never remembered any repercussions as a result. Of course, I know little of my father's actions and Diego and I were never close enough for me to ask. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

“And yet we were close enough for you to spill my entire damn life story.” Diego’s voice was a growl as he dropped the book onto the bed. He had worked hard, so hard to leave it behind, the animosity between him and Luther, the feeling of always being second best, his inability to speak and be heard but now this, no she, was bringing it all back.  
Coming out second she had said. Well, of course, she would, they all thought of him that way, as number two not quite good enough. Not able to make his own decisions, carve his own path. But they were wrong, she was wrong. He realized as he sat up, reaching for the knife on the table beside and flipping it in his hand, feeling the cold metal grounding him, bringing him back out of the past. He didn’t need Luther or Dad to tell him what to do. He didn’t need their stupid rules or anyone else’s.

“Diego?”

His thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open, Eudora sticking her head in.

“You coming to study?” She asked, holding one of their books, full of laws and bylaws, regulations beyond rational thought.

He moved to join her before stopping.

“I’m not studying anymore.”

“What does that mean?”  
Eudora stepped inside the room, confused.  
“You know the test is in two days, right?”

“I know.” He met her gaze firmly, tossing the knife up and down, feeling the thick handle fall into the center of his palm each time.  
She ignored it, by now long used to his knife collection and the strange comfort he found in them.

“Diego, what’s going on? Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“So come study with me.”  
“I’m not taking it.”

“What?”  
Eudora was sure she’d misheard.

“I’m not taking it. Not joining the police. Not doing any of it.”  
“Diego, we don’t have time for this no-  
“I’m serious this time. I’m not doing it. I can help people without all those stupid rules.”  
“These stupid rules are there to help people! We’re going to help people! Together.” The last word was quieter, a plea rather than a statement that almost broke him. But-  
“This is my choice and I’m making it.”

She backed away, poised to leave

“Are you sure about this, Diego?”

He looked down, catching his expression in the metal of the blade. His face stared back, resolute.

“Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”


	3. Chapter Three|Allison

Now we come to Allison, my one and only sister. Of all my siblings she is most likely the one you have heard of, Allison Hargreeves Hollywood’s darling. I don’t begrudge her that, she deserves all the happiness she can create for herself after leaving. I suppose that’s what we’re all trying to do, but it’s hard to create something you’ve never been taught to have. It’s a reshuffling of values, realizing that happiness is something you’re allowed to want. I think of us all, Allison was quickest to achieve the switch. 

Allison had what perhaps was the most powerful of all the abilities, she merely had to speak something for it to be true. It was always prefaced with her trademark ‘I heard a rumor’ but she never called them rumors. When she was little, when our father discovered her power and asked what she had done she looked up at him and told him

“I made a wish.”

And that was what they were. Not rumors, insidious little things that would crawl across the room and wiggle inside the ear of the target, but wishes, light airy things that would fly instead, holding her intent secure. The name was rather indicative of Allison herself, out of all of us she was always the one to look on the brighter side. She was one of the least rebellious of us, all her acts of independence discreet. Perhaps that’s what drew her and Luther so close together for they both had the belief that the family was doing and could continue to do great things. I’m not sure at which point she realized that wasn’t true.

I don’t recall Allison ever using her ability on any of us. I don’t think she did but sometimes I can’t help wondering-if she had, would I know? Those we fought always seemed confused about why they did the things she told them to do and how exactly her power manifested itself was never explained to us. I knew she had used it in other times to our advantage, convincing strangers to give us money to buy chocolate or to pretend we belonged to them to fit in. It seemed so casual and at the time we thought little of what I now realize was essentially robbing people of their autonomy-for as long as Allison spoke to them they were under her control whether she took advantage of that or not. I suppose looking from it objectively this seems to be wrong but in the moment, when it is such a harmless act, is it really such a big deal? This is the question we asked ourselves as children and thus we dismissed the moral ramifications of participating in these acts. 

As Allison grew she began to express interest in the outside world and culture more normally then the rest of us. While we either stayed inside and didn’t think much of it, or followed the news about politicians and tech developments, Allison chose to follow pop culture instead, somehow knowing about who the latest tv star was without us ever watching a show or knowing the latest trends without allowed interactions with other girls her age besides me. I remember one day walking into her room to find her closet full of clothing, bright colors and fun outfits none of which resembled our uniforms. When I asked where they had come from she slammed the door shut before telling me “I wished for them.” 

Allison wished for a lot of things she got, makeup and nail polish, friends who didn’t question why she could only see her once a week, magazines telling her what to wish for next. For a while we barely spoke- not out of animosity or tension, she was just busy with her life and I wasn’t a part of it. Eventually she came back, we started talking again on and off. She’d admit that her friends didn’t feel real, that I was one of the only ones who did. But eventually the allure of people who were not trapped in the house, who were ‘normal’ and belonged to the world Allison longed to join would take back over and she’d return to them. Perhaps that’s what drew her to acting, the fact that she already had been for so long. I’ve heard actors complain of the ‘fakeness’ of the life but perhaps to some, the lines blur comfortably.

_______________________

“So you understand.”

Allison looked up from the page at the interruption, blinking as she focused on her agent in front of her.

“Uh- yes, I-”

She wasn’t sure she understood anything. What could have possessed Vanya to write a book about them all like this?! What could make her think it was okay to spread the families story around like it was hers alone? And had she truly felt this way all the time? 

Allison remembered her dad’s treatment but her siblings- they had separated with tension it was true and hadn’t seen each other since but they hadn’t been that bad. They couldn’t have been. 

“We’re working on it now.” Her agent continued on, oblivious. “Just don’t make any public comments and we’ll deal with this. It shouldn’t have any impact on your current contracts as long as we do this right. I just wanted you to see it from us first in private so we avoid any…..awkward incidences.” He smiled at her and she nodded back.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She remained professional, smile frozen on her face. She was an actress for a living- and according to Vanya- in life, it wasn’t too hard to convince her agent that she was as ever in control. Because she was. This was nothing that wouldn’t be cleared away, nothing real. She smiled as she walked him out, thanking him again for coming to her home to let her know. She smiled as she walked back in, into her office and back out, not knowing where else to go. She smiled as she walked up the polished wooden staircase, one hand on the ornate banister, the other still clutching the book.

“Mommy?”

Allison started as Claire came out of her bedroom, barefoot in her rainbow princess pajamas.

“Claire! Do you know how late it is?” she asked, looking at her watch.

Claire nodded, but continued forward looking up at her mother with wide eyes.

“You said you’d read to me tonight. I waited and waited and waited and waited and-”

“I’m a bit tired tonight, cupcake, i’m sorry. I’ll read to you tomorrow night.” Allison directed her smile down towards her. 

Claire’s eyes fell as did her mouth the telltale signs of one of her ‘moments’ as Patrick called them, exacerbated by the late hour. Her cries rang in Allison's ears as she tried to comfort her, kneeling down and saying that it was okay, she’d read now but Claire was gone and inconsolable. The book dropped to the floor, pressing against Alison's leg hard as she knelt next to her crying daughter digging into her skin as her complaints burrowed into her ears. She knew how to end it but she couldn’t, not to her own daughter she couldn’t do that, but Claire was screaming now and it was loud, so loud, too loud, and the book pushed into her, lines were blurring and she just wanted it to stop, she wished it would stop

“I heard a rumor....”


	4. Chapter Four| Klaus

Klaus. The middle child. It sounds ridiculous to use the term in a family where all have the same date of birth but as number four the title still seems to work. Not quite one of the first three with their obedience and resolve, not as quiet and determined as those beneath him, Klaus stuck out as strange even in the Umbrella Academy. He is now- well I don’t know. I’m not sure if any of us do. Of all my siblings still with us, Klaus is the only one who I have no idea where he’s ended up. Diego’s gotten some phone calls in the past, Klaus needing someone to bail him out again. Eventually, those stopped too. I’ve never figured out if Klaus hasn’t gotten in trouble (doubtful), if Diego told him to stop (also doubtful. I don’t think Diego could ever bring himself to do that, finally give up on him.) or if Klaus realized it reflected badly on his aspiring police officer brother to keep rushing down to bail out a junkie. Since then we haven’t heard from him, and none of us have reached out. We’re not a family of correspondence and even if we were to reach out I’m not sure where we would even begin. We have plenty of explanations for why we never attempted contact. But as I have stated before and probably will again, explanations are not excuses.

Klaus was the most energetic of us all when we were young. He was the most enthusiastic when we got to free train and was the most annoyed and frustrated when we had to focus in silence on work he had no interest in. I don’t believe he was stupid, and our father didn’t either really. He had us all IQ tested and while he never shared our results we all heard him admonishing Klaus. He didn’t call him stupid but a different word- lazy. We’d sink lower into our seats as he’d walk up to Klaus’s desk and stare down at his worksheet, covered in doodles instead of history and frown at him. Our father never yelled although we may have wished he did. The alternative, his quiet words followed by immediate repercussion was worse. He’d tell Klaus how disappointed he was that Klaus chose to be lazy time and time again, he knew the boy couldn’t be that stupid, and Klaus slowly learned it was best not to answer back. He tried, in the beginning, said he couldn’t focus, said he tried, and we all shrink further away as our father’s face clouded over and he simply told Klaus to stop making excuses for laziness. This was a lesson to us all he said, about hard work. And Klaus would do something more torturous for him, copy over pointless lines, write a paper on the value of work. I’m not quite sure when he stopped trying, when his papers stopped being covered in drawings but in lines crossing the page, angry discordant lines pressing into each other and blotting out the words beneath, when he didn’t speak back anymore, just accepted the work piled on him.

Klaus had always had a fantastic imagination. He’d create whole worlds in his head, likely trying to escape from the one we were all trapped in. It was because of this perhaps we didn’t realize his power until later, we heard him talking to people who weren’t there and assumed they were nothing more than imaginary friends. I’m not sure when Klaus himself realized his friends were dead but after some time we realized something was off. Maybe it was the vivid wounds Klaus would describe, maybe their descriptions matched some people too perfectly but we found out eventually. I’m sure he did before us- not all dead were friendly and as he grew so did his ability until they wouldn’t leave him alone. There were some places he’d refuse to go anymore, places he’d loved but were now plagued with spirits who would yell at him, beg for him to listen, to hear them. And he never could. When our father grew wise to why Klaus shied away from different locations he took him away for a couple of days. Told us he was going to learn to be comfortable with the dead. I don’t know where they went but I do know Klaus was never the same after that. The energetic bouncy child was gone, replaced by a gaunt sullen boy. He began to withdraw from the rest of us even more, hiding in his room for hours on end, with only the dead for company. The drugs started a few years later when Klaus found something that would numb his abilities and chased it with a determination he applied to little else. The spirits had stopped him escaping to his own worlds, calling him back, screaming in his ears every time but with the drugs in his hands he could fight back, get himself into a new world, one of silence and peace, at whatever cost. 

_____________________________________________________

“This is bullshit.” Klaus stopped reading and pushed his chair back from the circle. “This is just ridiculous. Clearly, I am not the one who should be here right now.”

“Klaus, why don’t we keep at this anyway. I think we’re making real progress.” The woman who was supposed to be leading the group made a half-hearted attempt to keep him there.

Klaus stood up, knocking the chair backward, metal clanging against the hard concrete floor. He stared around at the circle of people now actually looking at him in the bright fluorescent light and he could feel their stares, feel them looking at him judging him. Like they had never made any bad choices, like they all just happened to end up at a court-mandated rehab center through no fault of their own. He pushed his way out of the room, leaving the murmurs and whispers behind, desperate for quiet. He made his way to his bunk in a blur, sinking down onto it holding his head in his hands, needing silence, needing the world to just shut up for just one second.

But no, of course, it wouldn’t. Of course, it couldn’t. Not for Klaus Hargreeves, useless cursed junkie. Murmurs continued as dark shadows flitted back and forth on the edge of his vision.

“Leave me alone. Please. Jus’ leave me ‘lone.” he begged, heedless of the others in the room who in turn ignored him. Just another guy going crazy. The institution had no shortage of those. Except one. Klaus looked up as he approached, a short guy with his hand tightly clenched.

“Want it now Hargreeves?”

Klaus didn’t answer, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, just reached for the payment and grabbed the pills before shoving them into his mouth and lying back.

The world slowly faded away again. And all was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you think and if I should continue past Five.


	5. Chapter Five

Number Five. He never took a name. Our father thought of it as a personal success, that Five had decided to keep the number he’d been given but I don’t think that was his intent at all. I don’t think Five even considered my father in the decision. He just thought of himself as Five and saw no reason to change it. He was cold, logical, even as a child and my favorite brother. We were close as kids, he would come back from missions and reassure me that nothing at all interesting had occurred, no matter how much press coverage they had received, how much good they had done, it was all reduced to a shrug of Five’s shoulders and a ‘it could’ve gone worse I guess.’

He discovered his ability to teleport fairly early and immediately began to push himself, tried to see how far he could go, how long he could last. Five was always the first to training and the last to leave, even after Luther was gone. His greatest frustration was not the rules and regulations by which we were bound or long days of work and short hour of play but that our father wouldn’t let him go further, try the jump he was convinced he would make, the jump through time.

He’d tell me of where we’d go in the little time we had free, the decades we’d travel to, free to do whatever we’d like. It was always assumed I’d accompany him- it would be foolish to travel alone he said, as though it was so much more logical to take another child along. But he had said so, and whatever else Five may have been he was never a liar. I still remember the day he disappeared as distinctly as though it was yesterday, the confrontation, Five running out of the house, the rest of us frozen in our seats waiting for him to return. And we waited until our father told us to go back to our work, and we did so, secure in the knowledge he’d be back by the next night if not that one. But he wasn’t. 

We never saw him again after that, and I suppose I could fill the rest of the chapter with stories fo him before, of the memories we shared. But Five’s story did not end with his departure. He left his shadow behind and it loomed large, affecting us all. I think I would be remiss if I ended here, if I left it as he did. Our father tried to keep everything routine but even with our schedule utterly unchanged Five seemed to be everywhere, in the gap of pictures, the empty desk, the space at the table. Our eyes flitted there even as our mouths wouldn’t dare comment. We had been functioning until then, in our own way, with our own problems, but continuing on nonetheless. Without Five, things began to fall apart. Our problems bubbled to the surface as we tried to come to terms with his absence.

Luther dealt with it by not dealing at all, taking our fathers cue to just pretend everything was normal, to just keep going. Diego grew more bold in his rebellion, growing more aggressive until just the slightest comment could set him off. Allison then began leaving in earnest, going out more and more to find new friends, new people she could charm, as though telling them her life was normal would make it so. Klaus withdrew from us further, going through his work and training as though programmed to do so, monotonous. Ben turned to his books and began living more in fictional worlds than ours. The beings within him seemed to sense his disturbance, they grew volatile and he seemed to lose control of them. It terrified him and there was nothing any of us could do. I don’t think I ever quite stopped believing Five would return. I’d go downstairs and switch on lights at night so he could find his way back. I woke up every day and made sure to pass by Five’s room on my way down, just in case he was in there, still in his pajamas, scribbling away in his notebook. Perhaps this is denial, but there really wasn’t much to deny. We never found evidence of Five’s death, never had any proof he wasn’t out there somewhere, somewhen. I don’t expect him back tomorrow anymore but part of me is still waiting. If anyone could make it back from wherever he’s gone, it would be him.

____________________

 

A drop of water dropped to the page and it took Five a moment to realize it was his tear. He wiped at his face angrily with his hand, clearing his eyes. He would not wallow in misery. He could not. He needed to get back to them. Before all of this happened. Before any of this happened. He could see them in his mind, Ben locking himself away while the monsters under his skin tried to escape, Vanya as she tiptoed downstairs, risking getting caught to leave him a light on. He tried to push it out of his mind. He needed to find more food, more water, there was no reason to be stopping here, in the ruins of what must have been a library or bookstore. It was hard to tell, the apocalypse had turned the world into an alien planet with nothing but mocking facades of what structures Five had known. He wondered what had been built since he left, wondered how they’d all as though in a moment crumbled down. Not that he had the time to sit and wonder about that either. The less time he allowed his mind freedom the better. Best to keep away from the places it would like to go.

He started to get up, putting the book down but stopped just as it touched the ground, disturbing the ash. He grabbed the pencil from his pocket and snatched the book up to scribble something in the margin of a page. It made sense, almost. It would make sense, eventually. He’d figure it out. He’d come back to them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, quick TW- there is some mention of self harm here, so if this is a major trigger for you you may want to skip this chapter!

Number Six. Ben. Perhaps you’ve heard us speak of him before, his eulogies were televised. It was after The Incident that we all went our separate ways, but before then was the giant publicity stunt that was his funeral, where the statue went up and we all stood and spoke about our dear deceased brother. That was the last time I saw most of my siblings. But of course, eulogies never really tell the story of a person. You’re never allowed to speak ill of the dead. Not that Ben was a bad person. I worry sometimes that someone will read my book and believe I hate my siblings, that my brothers and sister and are evil. I don’t believe in evil people. But I don’t believe in heroes either, and the stories I tell are about humans, are about real people who do real things. Real people do things that aren’t good. Especially when they are children. It is not my place to judge. I’m not sure who if anyone can. After all, in their position, who knows what they would have done? But oh what I would have done for the chance to find out. Although, Ben’s is the one ability that even I may have hesitated before accepting. He seemed to have little control over it as he grew older, and he hated it more than he could ever say. It terrified him. 

Ben was last before me, and I barely counted at all. He was desperate for our father’s and Luther’s approval, and he worked hard to get it. He’d work himself too hard sometimes, pushing himself past his limits for little to no acknowledgments. Over time I think it made him bitter, the constant work for no reward. He tried, he tried so hard to do it all but there’s only so much a boy can do and eventually something’s got to give. A child can’t work hard all the time, be on edge all the time and be kind and considerate to all. He was impatient, needing to go faster further. I tried to keep up but he didn’t want to be kept up to. He needed to be ahead so he could have at least that status. That at least I understand. It’s hard to be the last one and Ben did everything he could not be considered as such. I think that was the only thing making him let his powers loose sometimes. The need not to be me.  
He did alright in his classes, nowhere near Five but above the rest of us and he made sure to keep it that way. I was never sure if he truly enjoyed the material we were learning or if he needed to be ahead. He did love reading, that I do know. I always thought he’d be the one who’d write a book one day. He did write although I never read any of it, notebooks I never got to open. Perhaps he was just mimicking our father, writing down events of the days, writing down different things about us, or perhaps they were other stories about other people in other places he wished he could be. Regardless he, like the rest of us were stuck. 

Our father was intrigued by all of them but by Ben, it wasn’t just curiosity, it was unmasked disgust. If he made any attempt to mask his revulsion it was a poor one, we frequently overheard him referring to Ben’s abilities as ‘abominations’ and ‘revolting creatures’ and it was never quite clear whether or not he was including Ben in his description. He’d recoil every time Ben let them loose and Ben would shrink a little more each time. There’s only so long a boy can go hearing that he is disgusting before he starts believing it, especially when he so looks up to the one who is telling him.

I remember quite vividly one day walking by his room, the door slightly ajar and peeking in. I don’t know what overtook me to look, I don’t know why I pressed my eye to the doorway but I did. And I wish I hadn’t. It was the first and only time I had seen Ben cry. He was always so withdrawn, never showed his emotions to the rest of us. If he was upset he’d grow short-tempered but never would a tear show in his eye. But now his face was streaked, tears fell unchecked. He was shirtless and in his hand he held one of Diego’s knives, bloodied. I stood frozen as my eyes found his stomach and chest, found where the skin should have closed up smooth and clear where the tentacles returned after the day's mission. It was neither smooth or clear. I tore myself away and ran. We could not have been much older than twelve at the time. 

_______________________________________________________________

“She wrote that?” Ben’s voice came out as a whisper as he leaned over Klaus’s shoulder. “I can’t believe she would do that.” 

Klaus said nothing and Ben didn’t know if he didn’t hear him or if he didn’t have anything to say. He stepped back as Klaus kept reading, unable to continue. So now everybody knew. So now people he’d never met knew. So now she thought that she could just go and tell the entire world about him, about things she herself should never have known should never have seen. 

He folded his arms over his hoodie, zipped up over his skin. Not that he felt the fabric against his chest. Not that he felt anything at all. But for someone who could feel nothing, he was in a hell of a lot of pain. None of what she had written was wrong he supposed. He hadn’t been a hero. Perhaps he hadn’t been a good person. But for her to lay it all down on the page like that, for her to write it all out and share it with the world- and right there was Klaus reading all about him, about the parts of him he never wanted anyone to know about. The parts of him that should have died when he did. 

He wanted to go over and tell him to put it down. And he probably would if he yelled at him enough. Klaus wouldn’t keep going. Ben could trust him at least. He thought they could all trust each other in some small way, in a way that even when they would all separate, even when they wouldn’t talk to each other, even when they went out into the world they would never do anything like this. They’d never expose each other like this. Ben stayed where he was and let Klaus read.


	7. Chapter Seven|Vanya

Our family was always one of secrets. Our halls were silent, broken only by our whispers as we walked under the watchful eye of our father and his staff, which would come and go but would always do so silently. We followed his rules and there were many unspoken, so many things we never needed to hear to obey. With this book I have broken the first cardinal rule, the rule of secrets. But I believe it is time for the rules to be broken, for them to be shattered, for me to take them and rip them apart. There is no reason those rules should bind me, should bind any of us any longer. My siblings and I have been held to these rules for too long and it's time for that to end. I don’t pretend to be any kind of savior for us all, as I’ve said I don’t believe in them. I think I broke these rules for me and me alone, and even for me, their effect still lingers. If anything I expect my siblings to be upset by what I’ve written, if they read my words at all. 

I suppose it’s fair for them to be angry. In telling my story I have told theirs too and shared details of their lives they have been taught never should be shared. But I do not feel wrong in my writing my story, which has turned into ours. That’s the thing about people’s stories. It’s never just theirs. People don’t live in a vacuum and neither can their stories. They interact and intertwine with one another and to tell one is to tell snippets and fragments from thousands more. To tell my story is to tell my brothers’ story is to tell my sister’s story is to tell our father’s story is to tell my mother’s story is to tell all our story is to tell in some small way your story too. This is not an excuse. I don’t think I need one. But it is an explanation.

This has been the story of an ordinary little girl who grew up in extraordinary circumstances. And I’m not sure if there’s a moral. There generally is and I’m sorry if you, the reader were expecting one. Something like ‘but really everyone’s special’ or ‘everyone has special circumstances’. And both are true to an extent. But at the end of the day if there’s any true moral it’s that no one’s that special. It’s that even our heroes bleed and cry and fall. It’s that circumstances are not special, circumstances just are, and people deal with them. Or don’t. If my story has a moral it’s that sometimes there isn’t one. But it can be entertaining nevertheless. I hope my story has entertained you at least. That’s all I really want from this book, really. That it not be terrible, not spectacular but quite good. The book you read, you enjoy and wish to read again a couple of times. Sometimes those are the best. The ordinary ones.

____________________________________________

Vanya flipped the book shut, letting her fingers linger a moment to caress the glossy cover of the book before placing it on top of the others. Her face stared up at her from the stacks, unsmiling and she can feel the judgement of her younger self as though she was standing before her right there in the store. 

She pulled her coat tighter around herself and turned to go but her doubts followed her, insistent. It had felt so right at the time, so good to finally let it all out. And after all, why shouldn’t she? She defended herself against the silhouettes of her siblings, vivid on her books covers. It had felt wrong that, but her editor had assured her that was the point, that this time she was supposed to stand out, they weren’t supposed to be distinct at all. And yet, the way the book treated them, the way she had treated them….. their silhouettes haunted her. There was a lot she could have left out. A lot that perhaps she should have. So much that had been hurled down onto the page in anger so much ink splattered onto paper that formed into words that was now read everywhere, the book had gained so much popularity.

She glanced down at her phone, another text congratulating her on the bestseller list, on the hordes of people who have read her book. So many, at least one of them must have as well. Surely someone must have brought it to Allison’s attention, maybe Diego would have read it as well. Perhaps Klaus although probably not. It probably wouldn’t affect them much. Dad would have- well he’d gotten it. He’d read it. He’d have opened it at least. He’d look at it. So many people read her book now, it’s so big. Which was a good thing of course. That’s what she wanted. And yet a part of her felt like the whole thing was an angry email draft she’d hit send all on. A part of her that still longed to be among the silhouettes in the mansion on the cover was screaming at her to run back inside and grab all the books, to call them and tell them to take them all back, to stop them all, to unwrite the words, to unspill the ink. 

But she’s not a little girl anymore.

And she’s on the cover now. 

And they’re nothing more then black silhouettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading through, special thank you to everyone who commented and supported me through the chapters i love yall and im so happy i got to share this with you and im looking forward to seeing you in future fics!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought and how you want me to continue. Also disclaimer: I love Vanya she is so valid and this is in no way against her.


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